


Timber

by Sedaris



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:34:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedaris/pseuds/Sedaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the one where Dean is a lumberjack and Cas is the hippie who won't get out of the damn tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timber

He wasn't really a lumberjack.

The term was outdated, and carried with it certain connotations and mental images — mostly, of flannel and axes and large stacks of pancakes and breakfast meats.

Okay, so there was a considerable amount of flannel. And breakfast meats. Definitely a distinct lack of axes, though. Just large humming machinery and a pervasive sense of 'oh shit, this is some seriously dangerous equipment, like, Sinclair's _The Jungle_ levels of dangerous'. Dean liked the thrill of that, and it almost made it worth the completely shit pay.

He worked for Singers' Lumber, a partner of the local sawmill. The owner, Bobby, was good to Dean — a good boss, a good friend, a good supplier of possibly-blindness-inducing moonshine. Because Bobby was so good to him, Dean actually really gave a shit about doing good work. Sometimes the other guys gave him a hard time about it —"don't gotta wipe the whole forest out before lunch, Winchester" — but he liked knowing that if nothing else, Bobby could trust him to get the job done and then some.

Which meant that he was pretty fucking pissed at this goddamn hippie that had already set him back an hour and counting.

"Come on, man, I see where you're coming from. I do. But I really need you to get down here so that I can just do my damn job."

The dark-haired man crossed his arms resolutely, squinting down at him. "That's not true. You don't know where I'm coming from. I'm not coming down."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned to Garth, the skidder-operator, who returned his look with a helpless shrug. "Maybe you should go up there."

Dean sighed. Garth was notorious for having a few loose screws. "What? Just...what."

Garth shrugged again. "Just go talk to him, man, face-to-face. You know, without sixty feet of trunk between you. Might make the fella more reasonable."

"Why don't you shimmy your ass up there, then?"

The mousy man shook his head gravely. "No can-do, friend. Terrified of heights. Liable to pass right out without a brown bag to hyperventilate into."

Dean gaped. "You're a logger!"

"Guys, the sun is gonna start going down pretty soon," Sam called from the truck.

Dean rolled his eyes, wiping the side of his face with his hand. "Alright. Alright! I'm going up."

He made his way over to the tree and paused briefly before hoisting himself up the first branch. Left foot, left hand. Right foot, right hand. Grab, plant foot. Shift foot, reach up. The dark-haired man watched him the entire way up, curiosity written all over his face.

When Dean got to the branch where he was perched, he scooted his way over, until his boot could nudge the other man's sole.

"Hey."

"Hello."

"Name's Dean."

"Castiel."

They shook hands.

"So, I kind of need you to climb down. See, I work for Singer's Lumber, and this tree needs to get down to the sawmill by tomorrow. Can't really cut it down with you in it, you know?"

"I'm not coming down."

Brilliant idea, Garth, truly. Dean tried not to let his impatience show.

"Okay, but, why?"

"This tree is special."

Dean threw up his hands. "Oh boy, alright, I get it. Trees have their own beautiful souls, and I'm a monster, and you won't let me murder a pure creature of God, and yadda yadda yadda. No offense, but I've heard it all from your type before, and I don't know what to tell you, besides that I still have a job to do."

Castiel squinted once more. "My type?"

"Yeah, you know, the pothead tree-hugger type."

Castiel shook his head. "You misunderstand. I don't particularly care about the other trees. I mean, yes, in the sense that everyone knows that there's something morally gray at best about deforestation, but I won't stop you from cutting down any of the other trees if you want them. You just can't have this one."

Dean met his eyes. Castiel, whom he had previously presumed was a Bob Dylan-wannabe, had a sort of fierce protectiveness up close. If Dean was honest — and he never was, not about this sort of thing — he'd always had a really embarrassing weakness for strong men. Not necessarily in physique, though certainly that, too, but what really got him was strong character. Not that anyone apart from his few past partners knew that he liked any sort of man, no, he kept that detail of his life strictly under wraps. He never claimed to have particularly strong character himself, after all.

"Why this one?" He finally asked.

It was Castiel's turn to sigh, his fierceness shifting to a kind of hard tiredness. "It's a bit of a long story."

Dean looked down at Garth at the skidder, then at Sam in the truck, before surveying the sun that had inched ever-so-slightly closer to the horizon. "Aw, hell, we've still got two hours 'til sundown. Go ahead."

And so Castiel told him all about how many years ago, before his deadbeat father split, he had built Castiel and his sisters a tire swing in this tree. They played with it every day of the summer, even those cool days during which they could only delude themselves into believing that summer hadn't quite ended yet. He told him about how he kissed his first girl, Meg, under one of the thickest bottom branches. He told him about how when Anna, his middle sister, had gone missing, all the police managed to find was her jacket, thrown at the foot of the wide trunk. He told him about how Naomi's husband had carved their initials into the bark when they got engaged. He told him how Hester had gauged that chunk of bark clean off. He told him story after story after story, heartbreak and love and disaster and years and years of family history. This tree, clearly, was as much a part of his family's home as their house up the road was.

Dean's phone rang, caller ID alerting him that it was his brother."Hello?"

"What gives, Dean, you've been up there forever. Is he coming down or not?"

Dean glanced sideways at Castiel, who was now leaning against the base of the tree, hands folded in his lap. "You know what? Just head down to the other end of the patch. I'll meet you guys in a little bit."

"What? Whatever. Okay." Click.

"Do you really need to cut down this tree?" Castiel asked, gaze open and ready to accept whatever Dean was going to say.

Dean gave him a little smile and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll talk to Bobby. I'm sure something can be arranged."

Castiel returned the smile, gorgeous blue eyes lighting up like Christmas. "Dean, can I ask you one more question?"

"What's that?"

"Would you like to have coffee with me tomorrow morning?"

Dean swallowed. "Yeah, Castiel. I'd — I'd like that."


End file.
